Down Under and Back Again
by Emeline
Summary: Voldemort is gone, but the war still rages around Ron and Hermione. As they pick up the pieces and make plans to head to Australia in the midst of a burgeoning relationship, they discover a a death eater's plot to hunt them down in the land down under.


"Ready to go?"

Ron peered down into Hermione's face, squeezing her hand in his. "It's almost time."

She used her free hand to extract their tickets from her pockets, which thankfully weren't infinitely extendable like the bag they'd been depending on for so long. "Are you sure about this? Do you really want to come?"

"'Course," he said, smiling. In truth, riding on a flying vehicle that wasn't his father's destroyed Ford Anglia (and for a bloody twenty-four _hours_, no less) to restore the memories of people he'd never known and who currently couldn't recognize their only daughter did not sound like that great of an idea to him. But he'd been through worse, much worse, without any kind of a plan. At least the goal of this little adventure was more than just survival.

"They don't have chocolate frogs over there, you know," Hermione warned, trying to look serious. "Think you can still make it?"

Ron let out a slow, long breath. "Dunno. Guess we'll have to find out now, won't we? Maybe that's where that blasted Agrippa card is—Australia of all places. I should've known."

She rolled her eyes, but a kiss on his cheek softened her chiding. "I appreciate your support, Ron, really, but you have to know this isn't going to be an Easter holiday vacation. The war is over and Voldemort is gone, but they're still death eaters out there and we're still targets. We're going to have to be on guard all the time."

Ron nodded. That was exactly his point in accompanying her—he knew full well about the death eaters out there, and he wasn't going to let Hermione on her own until he'd seen all their hallowed faces behind the bars of Azkaban. The memories of Malfoy Manor were still far too fresh in his memories.

"If I wanted to go on vacation, I would've asked you to a Chudley Cannons game. They're supposed to be a favorite for the cup this year, you know." Ron surprised even himself with this revelation. He hadn't had time to think about quidditch in ages…he wasn't sure how he managed without it for so long.

"Perhaps when we come back," she suggested, leaning in to him. "The World Cup was fun. Well, excluding the death eater demonstration at the end."

Death eaters. How long would it be before that cursed word no longer strayed into literally every conversation they shared?

"Oi." Harry called out from the hallway, his hands over his eyes as he walked into the room. "You two had better put a stopper on the snogging and get to the airport."

"We weren't snogging, Harry," Hermione insisted, her voice indignant.

"Airport." Ron repeated slowly, testing the strange muggle term with his tongue. "Right. I'd forgotten how you say it."

Harry slumped down on the couch next to the pair. "You're supposed to be there already. I reckon security will be a nightmare, what with all the summer holiday travel."

Harry had never set foot on an airplane before, but it would be a long time before he forgot Aunt Petunia's screeches or Uncle Vernon's yelling and spitting as the Dursleys hustled to get out Privet Drive and on the flight to whichever exotic destination, leaving him with Mrs. Figg for the week, of course. It was always his fault that they were running late.

"Harry's right," Hermione shuffled the tickets between her fingers again. "We should've been there fifteen minutes ago. You're supposed to show up more than an hour early."

"An hour early?" Ron ran his hands through his hair in disbelief. "Blimey. You're already on the p-p—" he struggled for the word for a moment before giving up and continuing, "—the damn thing for 24 hours. What right do they have to make us wait any longer?"

"It isn't like the Floo Network," Hermione explained, the familiar know-it-all tone creeping into her voice. Her comparison of the floo network with the muggle aiport (an attempt to make life easier for Ron), was failing spectacularly. "You don't leave immediately. They have to check all the airplane's systems, and then after they've loaded all the passengers, which takes awhile as well, they still have to go through and explain safety regulations…"

Hermione trailed off, noting the horrified expression on Ron's face.

He sighed.

He wasn't backing out on her for anything—not this time—but he knew better than Hermione gave him credit for that this would be no vacation. In fact, he half-hoped some death eaters would blast their way into things so they could break up the monotony of it all. It felt strange to switch from _GO GO GO_ mode every second of his endangered life to the everyday at the burrow—a house full of emptiness and grieving. A quiet house full of emptiness and grieving, a house where he had too much time with his own sorrow. Winning the war hadn't been exactly the moment of his dreams.

"You sure you don't want me to come?" Harry's question cut into Ron's thoughts, bringing them both back to the conversation. "You know I want to be there with you for this, Hermione. 'Specially after all you've done for me. For all of us."

Hermione patted his arm. "Thanks, Harry. Shouldn't you stay here, though, with you know—?"

She nodded off in the direction of the kitchen, where Ginny was busy peeling potatoes for dinner that night.

Harry possessed no biological Weasley blood, but his face glowed with the intensity all the same. The subject of their relationship was still sore, and Ron wasn't sure how he felt about it yet. Between loyalty to the baby sister whom Harry left behind and the repulsive thought that she was in love with his best mate, his teaspoon's allowance of emotion was all jumbled up.

"Yes," said Harry. "I should stay here. We've got a lot to sort out. This is probably the best time to do it."

"You mean, with us gone so the two of you can snog each other senseless?"

Harry grinned. "Guess I deserved that one."

"Urgh!" Ron made a face. "Don't agree with me about anything that has to do with you and my sister, unless Professor McGonagall is there, using _Hogwarts, A History_ to separate you."

"Hey, you said it. Not me."

Ron threw a pillow at him, but his heart was only halfway in it. Harry dodged with ease, laughing as his glasses fell lopsided on his face.

Mrs. Weasley ran into the room, her face grave, the lines of exhaustion beneath her eyes in painful relief. She was clutching the _Daily Prophet_ in her hand, her knuckles white and shaking.

"What's wrong, mum?" Ron asked. He left Hermione to walk to his mother. "Is everything all right?"

Most certainly everything was not all right. Ron didn't like to say the alternative, however. After losing one of her sons, he wasn't sure how much more his mother could take. How much more he could take.

"It's—" tears sputtered down her cheeks and words failed her. Finally, she managed to whisper, "_Dolohov_."

Ron flinched, and he saw the muscles seize up in Harry's back. Antonin Dolohov. The murderer of his uncles, Lupin, too many others to count…not to mention his near-fatal curse to Hermione…

"Dolohov?" Hermione repeated, shocked. "B-but..that's impossible. We saw him, remember? We saw him dueling with Flitwick. He lost. I'm sure of it."

"We didn't see him die, though," Harry pointed out grimly. "The man's escaped from Azkaban more than three times. If Flitwick didn't kill him, I'm sure he's still out there."

Ron eased the paper from his mother, wrapping his other arm around her. "What is it, mum? What did they say about him in the _Prophet_?"

Part of him didn't want the answer. Yet he unfolded the pages, searching the front page in frenzied desperation. If someone else was dead, someone he knew…Dean, Seamus, Neville, Luna…

His face blanked and the paper fluttered down to the ground as if in slow motion. Every piece of him seemed to go numb, and he could feel himself shaking. With fury or fear, he couldn't tell.

"We can't go."

He directed this at Hermione, who looked back at him in confusion. "What, Ron? What is it?"

She snatched the paper up and scanned the headlines. _**DEATH EATERS STRIKE FEAR IN LONDON, HUNTING DOWN REMAINING MUGGLE-BORNS**_.

She folded her arms against her chest. "So what else is new? Death eaters have been after muggle-borns for centuries. Have you already forgotten our second year at Hogwarts? Besides, even if Wendell and Monica Wilkins weren't muggles," she used their fake names for emphasis, "Death eaters still wouldn't care for me. Being a member of the 'golden trio' doesn't exactly mark you out for that lot."

"London, though," said Harry as he read the newspaper. "That isn't very far."

Ron shook his head. "Hermione, I can't believe I'm saying this, but don't you read? There's a whole article after that headline, you know."

She made an impatient noise after his admonishment, but obeyed all the same. Her eyes widened in surprise, and Ron could detect the prickling of fear in her expression.

"He knows? He knows my parents are in Australia? But how?" Her mouth gaped open unabashedly while she scanned the paper over and over again. She grabbed her wand. "I have to do something."

"Not only that, Hermione. He's after you. He's probably camping out there with his cronies, hoping we set foot in one of his thousands of traps!" Ron moaned. His stomach twisted. How was he supposed to keep her safe in an entire continent filled with snares to catch the two of them? They may have defeated the greatest dark wizard of all time, but that didn't change the fact that they were still both only eighteen, and their magical education was far from complete.

Hermione didn't have time to respond.

The doorbell rang.


End file.
